It is not night when I do see your face, Therefore I think I am not in the night; Nor doth this wood lack worlds of company, For you in my respect are all the world: Then how can it be said I am alone, When all the world is here to look on me?

He that is proud eats up himself: pride is his own glass, his own trumpet, his own chronicle.

I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried in thy eyes—and moreover, I will go with thee to thy uncle’s.

Hell is empty and all the devils are here.

We go to gain a little patch of ground that hath in it no profit but the name.

For naught so vile that on the earth doth live But to the earth some special good doth give.

And keep you in the rear of your affection, Out of the shot and danger of desire, The chariest maid is prodigal enough If she unmasks her beauty to the moon.